The Avid Angler - The Hot Dog Detective (A Denver Detective Cozy Mystery) Page 2

"It was only a contempt charge. Nothing really serious. Bob understood how you felt. Hell, most of us would have gladly changed places with you."

  MacFarland stopped cleaning up his cart and looked dourly at his former partner. "Aren't you forgetting that someone in the department screwed up the evidence files? One of our own, Cyn, helped get Peterson that not guilty verdict."

  The new guy, Lockwood, turned bug-eyed at that. Pierson noticed and frowned. “Lockwood, how about I meet you back at the station?”

  Lockwood seemed relieved for the excuse to leave. MacFarland could not tell if he was trying to get out of the cold or get away from the uncomfortable turn in the conversation.

  Pierson lowered her voice, but not her intensity. "You don't know whether that's true or not, Mac! It could just have been a natural mistake. Human error. There doesn't have to be a conspiracy to explain everything."

  MacFarland knew she was referring to his suspicions that Alison Wentworth had been paid off to lose the case. She hadn't stayed very long in the DA's office after that trial. She left Denver, but he wasn't sure where she had gone. Phoenix, perhaps? By the time she left Denver, he was lost in his drunken fog.

  "I know what I know," said MacFarland bitterly.

  "You don't know shit, Mac. Wake up, get over it. You are wasting your life out here. What are you doing? Selling hot dogs? For Christ sake, what a joke!"

  "I like being one of the invisible people," said MacFarland in a quiet voice.

  "The what?"

  "The invisible people. Those people that most of us don't pay any attention to. The ones who wait on us in restaurants, or the ones who pick up the garbage every Tuesday. The people we all pretend don't exist."

  "Nobody thinks like that, Mac. That's the booze talking. You're still wallowing in self-pity."

  MacFarland started pushing the cart again. "Yep, Cyn, that’s right. Wallowing, swimming, drowning. Told you, I'm not very good company these days."

  Pierson snorted. "You flatter yourself, asshole. You never were good company. But you were a good detective. You're letting that go to waste."

  "My values have changed, Cyn. Losing Nicole did that for me."

  She softened and put a hand on his arm. "What values, Mac? Talk to me."

  MacFarland shook his head. He couldn’t talk about it. He realized he was being an asshole, but it would have been easier to take a bullet to the chest than drag it all back out into the open.

  Pierson had difficulty looking at her former partner. "I don't know what went wrong with the trial, Mac. When we first indicted Peterson, it certainly looked like a slam dunk to most of us in the department. We had him dead to rights. But you have to keep in mind that even if there were no problems with the evidence, I think Peterson had the jury in his pocket. But guys like that eventually fuck up, Mac. Their arrogance puts them at a disadvantage. One of these days, we will get him."

  MacFarland stared at her without speaking for several awkward moments. "Who exactly is watching Peterson? Who is waiting for him to slip up, Cyn?"

  Pierson was silent. She couldn’t answer his question because he was right. No one was watching Peterson. MacFarland barked a short laugh and turned back to his cart. "That's what I thought. Peterson will get away with killing my wife and no one is going to do a damn thing to stop him. I think I have every right to be lousy company."

  MacFarland packed up his cart in silence. His truck and trailer were parked in a small private lot behind a house. He positioned the cart at the back of the trailer, then connected a cable to it. Moving to the front of the trailer, he turned a winch, pulling the cart onto the trailer. He secured it to the trailer, then turned to face Pierson, who was silently watching him. "I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment to you, Cyn. You were--you are--a great partner. I miss working with you, but I don't miss the department. In fact, if you think about it, my not being there is probably a good thing."

  "How do you figure?" asked Pierson.

  MacFarland unlocked his truck door and climbed in. "It's simple, Cyn. If I were still in the department, I would be using every resource at my disposal to bring that bastard down."

  Chapter 3

  Monday, November 30, 1720 Hours

 

  MacFarland pulled his truck and trailer into the driveway and parked behind the carports that served to shelter the apartment building's vehicles from Denver's changeable weather. He arrived home early enough to ensure that he had access to the trash-strewn strip of dirt and gravel. Normally he had no problems parking behind the carport, except when Harry Shamus in Apartment 16B parked his pickup truck back there. Harry did this, MacFarland was convinced, just to piss him off, since there were plenty of parking spaces closer to the building. Harry clearly knew that there were not many other places MacFarland could park his truck and hitch, except on the street in front of the building, and in this neighborhood, that wasn't a safe option. Way too much vandalism from local gangs. If MacFarland wanted to avoid parking on the street, he had to unhitch his trailer, park that in one space, then park his truck in another space. A lot more work.

  He climbed up the three flights of stairs to his apartment. It was only a studio apartment, about all he could afford. He probably could qualify for public assistance, but he had never found the time to apply. During the two years he had been a drunk, he hadn't even considered housing. Those had been his years on the street, a period of his life that he was glad was just a blurred confused set of memories.

  As he opened the door to his apartment, he was surprised to find Stefanie sitting at what passed for his kitchen table. He’d forgotten that he had given Stefanie a key to the apartment when he moved into it a year earlier. For the past several months, they hadn’t been on very good speaking terms.

  "It's been more than a year and you still don't have any real furniture," she said as soon as he closed the door. MacFarland sighed. Apparently they still weren't on good speaking terms.

  "It's good to see you too, Stefanie," he replied, not looking at her as he set his unused product on the kitchen table. He sat on the opposite side of the table, the packages of hot dogs and buns serving as a barrier between them.

  Stefanie Cooper--Nicole's younger sister--sat with her hands crossed over her lap, wrinkling her nose disapprovingly at his apartment. Stefanie looked too perfect to be trapped in his apartment. Perfectly coifed hair, delicately arching eyebrows, full, pouty lips, almost like one of those models in a television cosmetics commercial. She was the exquisite rose, forced by rude circumstance to take root atop a heap of garbage.

  He glanced around, trying to see his apartment through her eyes. His less than diligent attacks with a mop had failed to eliminate the inexorable taint of feline urine, the leftover evidence of the former inhabitant, an old lady who had been evicted because she kept a cat zoo. And clearly the apartment lacked furniture. All he had was a card table, three folding chairs, a salvaged recliner chair that needed a repair, a floor lamp, a small bookcase that held his language CDs and a bunch of outdated cassettes, and a queen-sized mattress that rested on the floor. Most of his clothes were stuffed in the closet, in various boxes of assorted sizes.

  What Stefanie didn't notice, in all probability, was that there wasn't a single bottle of booze or any cans of beer anywhere in the apartment. That was the only thing that MacFarland really took any pride in, though it was a very tentative sort of pride.

  "I don't know how you can live like this, Mark," she said, ignoring his comment.

  "The hot dog business isn't exactly the money tree I had hoped it would be."

  "Who even buys hot dogs in the winter?"

  MacFarland shrugged, choosing to ignore the question. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

  Stefanie glanced around the room, shaking her head. "I came over to invite you to come over to our house for Christmas Dinner. The kids missed you at Thanksgiving. We'll be eating at four in the afternoon. If you want to come over earlier, you could watch football or something. I am sure
Randy would enjoy your company."

  MacFarland seriously doubted that. Even when Nicole had been alive, Randy had never been particularly fond of MacFarland. Nor had MacFarland especially liked Randy, whose idea of forging friendship consisted primarily of snide comments about police brutality. Since Nicole’s death, Randy's attitude towards him had cooled by several more degrees.

  MacFarland gestured at the television, an old style tube model. "As you can see, I’m not much for watching television. But thank you for the invitation. I will consider it."

  The ensuing pause stretched into awkward silence. MacFarland was not uncomfortable with silence, but clearly Stefanie couldn't stand the concept. "We really do want you to come over, Mark. It's been way too long since you've seen the kids. They miss you."

  MacFarland could actually believe that. Ryan and Kaitlyn really did seem to enjoy his company, almost as much as he enjoyed being with them. Nicole had wanted to postpone children, then it had seemed like it was never the right time to bring children into the world. "Your job is so dangerous," she had once said. "What right do we have to bring children into the world if their father might someday get killed?"

  That argument never made sense to him. Unless he was hearing the wrong argument. Perhaps Nicole was actually saying, "I don't want to have your children.” Ryan and Kaitlyn represented the children that MacFarland felt were missing from his life. He had the sudden realization that he hadn't seen them in more than three years.

  "They must be getting big by now. I’m surprised that they even remember me."

  "Of course they remember you. You're their Uncle Mark. They talk about you all the time."

  Which, of course, wasn't true. MacFarland had interrogated enough people to know when a person was telling a lie. But he didn't point that out to Stefanie. What did it matter anyway? He knew that he would have to start all over with Ryan and Kaitlyn, re-establishing bonds that probably existed only in his imagination.

  Just as he would have to start all over with a lot of people. His father. His brother. Even his former partner.

  Stefanie had been there when he started to turn his life around. After all, she had helped him get this apartment, loaning him the money for the security and cleaning deposits. He at least owed her the decency to accept her invitation. "Okay, I'll be there. Is there anything I can bring?"

  Stefanie laughed, then stopped herself, self-consciously aware that MacFarland might take her laughter as derisive. "No, everything is taken care of. Just bring yourself, Mark. That's all I want."

 

 

  Chapter 4

  Monday, November 30, 1835 Hours

 

  After Stefanie left, MacFarland put his product away, realizing that he had completely filled up his refrigerator. He definitely would have to get a second unit to store his product.

  He went over to his recliner and sat down. Normally, he would spend this time listening to his language lessons, but Stefanie’s visit had thrown him off schedule. He picked up the television tuner and turned on his old television. The television warmed up, giving rise to a sharp acrid smell that he found quite unpleasant. He didn’t think his television would last much longer. He flipped through the channel button until he found a station that was broadcasting news. Most of the time, the local news did not affect him, and he was happy to ignore it. This time, however, one story in particular caught his attention.

  "Neighbors were surprised Saturday morning when police arrived at the home of prominent businessman Otto Freeman, co-owner of Newsome Jewelry, who was found dead in the garage of his Sloan Lake residence. Freeman, who died from a gunshot wound to the head, was survived by his wife, Maureen Freeman. Mrs. Freeman was quoted saying that she thought her husband was away on a fishing trip and didn't even realize he was home. Police are investigating the circumstances of Mr. Freeman's death but had no comments on suspects or progress. However, a department spokesperson did describe Maureen Freeman as a person of interest in the ongoing investigation."

  There was nothing particularly significant about the news report, yet something had set off a light in his mind. What was it? Then he realized this was the case that Jerry Baker had been talking about. Apparently Maureen Freeman was no longer simply a person of interest if she had been arrested.

  MacFarland continued to stare at the television screen, but he wasn't seeing the images that flashed across the screen. He was wondering why he had let his past slip by him.

  Chapter 5

  Tuesday, December 1, 0900 Hours

 

  Tuesday started the same way the previous 532 days had started. Today was Day 533 of being sober, and he was thankful for that simple victory. He drove to the private parking lot across the street from his usual corner, unloaded his cart, and pushed it towards his favorite location. As he was setting up, he waved good morning to Jacinto Gomez, the vendor half a block away. Being closer to the U.S. Mint, Gomez tended to get more tourist business, while MacFarland got more business from the lawyers, jurors, and police officials who worked in the Detention Center and the Courthouse. While there were more jurors than tourists, the tourist crowd was a more dependable market. MacFarland and Jacinto had a friendly competition going as to who hustled the most business.

  It looked like neither of the two men would get a lot of business today. Grungy clouds staggered around the skies like hungover drunks, pissing moisture into the air. MacFarland expected a classic hit-and-run Denver drizzle would erupt by late afternoon, just in time to slick the streets for the evening commute. He opened up the umbrella in case the rain caught him by surprise. He just hoped that when the front moved in, it would do so gently.

  At nine o'clock, a little behind schedule, Rufus Headley shuffled up, two cups of coffee in his hands. "Good morning, boss," he said as he handed one of the cups to MacFarland.

  "Good morning, Rufus. Did you sleep under a roof last night?” MacFarland took the cup of coffee and pulled off the lid. He took several gulps, then put the lid back on. "Your dogs will be ready in just a few moments."

  "No hurry boss. They can't start the meeting without me.” Rufus pulled out a crushed pack of cigarettes and lit one that looked less sorry than the others. He once had been a tall man, but now he was slumped over, his skinny body hidden by layers of sweater and jacket. His untrimmed beard had bits of leaf in it, and his hair was desiccated tufts of bleached straw. Yet his eyes flashed with intensity, and his craggy face was crenellated with laugh lines. MacFarland remembered a spare hat at home, someplace in that messy closet of his, that he wanted to give to Rufus. Don't forget to bring it tomorrow, asshole! he chided himself. He knew it wouldn't match Rufus' faded green army jacket, but it would at least help keep his head warm.

  "I went down to the Creek with some of the boys last night,” Rufus said. “We made a fire until this lady cop ended our party. But she let us stay there, which was right decent of her. Didn't even tell us to go to the Mission."

  "The Mission was probably full," said MacFarland. "It usually is this time of year.” He grabbed one of the heated dogs and put it in a warmed bun, then handed it to Rufus.

  Rufus carefully snuffed out his cigarette, preserving what remained of it for later, and started to put relish and ketchup on the hot dog.

  "Gotta get my veggies," he joked. Always the same joke, but MacFarland laughed anyway. "Not cold enough for the shelters, man," mumbled Rufus between bites of the hot dog. "Just wait ‘til there’s snow on the ground."

  MacFarland prepared a second hot dog for Rufus. "We might get a touch of snow tonight, Rufus," he said. "Looks like rain this afternoon, and if the temperature drops much, it will get really unpleasant. Maybe you should consider going to one of the shelters."

  "Lotsa people more deserving than me, boss," said Rufus. "I wouldn't feel right takin’ a bed away from one of them.”

  MacFarland shook his head in resignation. "You're as deserving as anyone, Rufus. Don't ever forget that and don't let anyone tell you diffe
rent.” He pulled a ten dollar bill out of his pocket and handed it to his friend. "Here's for coffee tomorrow, friend."

  Rufus pocketed the bill and smiled. "Right on, boss. By the way, what language you studying these days?"

  "Still working on Spanish," said MacFarland. "I'm hoping to be fluent by summer. When all the tourists from Mexico will be in Denver."

  "You could always go over to Park Hill, boss, and use your Spanglish there."

  MacFarland smiled. "And miss seeing all my friends over here? No, I think I’ll stay here. Try to stay warm tonight, Rufus. And stay out of trouble."

  "Always do, boss, always do."

  As MacFarland watched Rufus Headley amble away, he thought back to the day they first met. MacFarland was not sure exactly how long he had been too drunk to know which day was which, but he did remember getting eighty-sixed out of a bar on Colfax. The bouncer apparently knew that MacFarland had once been a cop, and he didn't have very many pleasant memories of Denver Police encounters, so he took out his frustrations on MacFarland. Rufus had found MacFarland lying in a sticky pool of blood in an alleyway behind a row of stores a block away from the bar. One of Rufus’ many assignments in Vietnam had been as a medic, and he used what few skills he retained to clean up MacFarland's wounds and cuts. They spent the night together, mostly for protection, since at that time the weather had been mild enough that sleeping outdoors was no great concern.

  When MacFarland had regained enough consciousness and sobriety to know what was going on, he thanked Rufus for his kindness, then told him to piss off. Rufus had smiled, said his usual polite "Anything you say, boss," and left.

  Two weeks later, they met up again. This time, it was a gang of black youths who were harassing MacFarland, and once more MacFarland was too drunk to even defend himself. It didn't require much more than Rufus to come along and tell the boys to go fuck themselves to stop the harassment. But when MacFarland woke up the next morning, knowing only that he had been involved in some vague altercation, Rufus told him a lurid tale of mass harassment and heroic rescue. When MacFarland finally told Rufus to piss off again, this time Rufus tried a different tactic. "No way, boss. You need me. Without me to look out for you, you're just gonna get your sorry ass in a major bind. I gotta stick around an’ watch over you."